


Nightmares

by eamesish



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eamesish/pseuds/eamesish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames starts having nightmares that leave him terrified and screaming. All he can ever remember is the shadows and the pain and the fear and one sentence: <i>I am your reckoning.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on aniorro's [photoset](http://aniorro.tumblr.com/post/22210631183/where-is-the-line-between-dream-and-reality), which I saw and knew instantly I had to write a fic about. I asked her if I could and, well, she said yes, so here it is! I've put a little bit of my soul into it--I wrote it over the course of two days, so I had to xD Let me know what you think!
> 
> P.S: Chapter 2 is an alternate ending, so you may want to read that, too!

Sanity is a funny thing.

Some people have it naturally, loads of it. Some people never run out of it. They sit in their little square houses and go to work every morning after eating a regular breakfast with their regular family in their regular lives. They come home and kiss their regular wife and watch a regular game of football. They are born somewhat discontented and they die somewhat discontented, and that's how they  _are._

Some people have none of it from the very beginning. They're born into the world kicking and screaming, frightened, unable to make sense of it all. They die the same way. All of life is just a blur—maybe they have their little square house or maybe they have a fucking asylum, but either way, everything sort of blurs together into a sort of nonsense that all the sane people look at and say “well, that was exciting.”

And then there are the people in the middle.

They like to pretend they're sane. They hide away their bouts of insanity in little boxes and push them to the back of their minds, leaving them to gather dust until another little box joins them. It works on the surface, too, it works fucking  _perfectly,_ and everyone's none the wiser. They are sane and all is well and oh, just ignore the little weird things they do sometimes because they're completely fucking normal, what are you even talking about?

Eames is one of those people.

…

“When did you get here?”

Eames grunts from his spot on the couch, sitting up and throwing the afghan that covered him onto the coffee table.

Rolling his shoulders, he sighs. “Dunno. Three AM, maybe? Four?”

Arthur's tapping his fingers against the kitchen counter. He doesn't look displeased, but he doesn't look particularly happy, either. After a moment he sighs.

“Coffee?”

Eames gives him a look.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “You should  _try_ it at least.”

“Oh, I've tried it.” He gets up, striding toward the kitchen and grimacing when he realizes he's still in his rumpled suit from the job. “I just don't like it.”

Arthur puts on a pot of coffee anyway, pausing only when Eames wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close so they're face-to-face.

“What?”

Eames lets his hands settle around Arthur's hips and they rock back and forth a little, like a dance.

“I like you, you know.”

Arthur attempts to give Eames his “you're ridiculous” look, but ends up smiling instead.

“I like you too.” Arthur tries to give him a chaste kiss on the lips but, as per usual, Eames has to go and ruin things. He pulls Arthur in, cupping his hand around his neck, and gives him a long, slow kiss as he backs him up against the counter, stopping only when Arthur digs a knuckle into his ribs.

“We have things to do today, you know,” he says with irritation, but his cheeks are flushed and he's still smiling.

“Yeah, yeah. Remind me why we're doing said things again?”

“So we can buy our own islands and retire to be fabulously rich for the next fifty years of our lives.”

Eames laughs. “Oh, right.”

“Go and change, Eames. You smell like smoke. If you're wondering, I did your laundry from last time you decided to barge in and make my life a living hell.”

“You're a saint, darling.”

“Oh, I know.” He pulls out a box of tea bags from a cabinet. Eames begins to walk away, but Arthur clears his throat.

“You don't have to sleep on the couch when you come in late, you know.”

…

That night, Eames most certainly does  _not_ sleep on the couch.

The job is long and tiresome and Eames kind of wants to just go to sleep, but Arthur is giving him these eyes and their fingers are intertwined and Arthur's hair smells nice, so he finds he wants to stay up far more. Arthur bares his neck and Eames ravishes it, his hands raking through the black locks, and he savors every little sound that passes through Arthur's lips like they're made of gold. He cradles Arthur against the covers like he's some horribly fragile doll and brings him up to a climax slowly, until the wait is  _agonizing,_ until Arthur's spine is arched and his skin is hot and damp and he's trying desperately to speak and all Eames can say is “what is it, darling, what do you want?” and Arthur breathes “you” and goddammit, Eames  _gives_ it to him, gives all of himself that he can in the span of a few seconds, and then it's over and Arthur is panting beneath him and they're both so ragged and undone that they can't even manage to care about it all.

Eames rolls to the side and Arthur gazes at him through half-lidded eyes, a content smile resting on his face.

“You're a bit mushier than usual today,” Eames remarks, nuzzling his nose along Arthur's jaw and peppering light kisses where he can.

“Mm.” He doesn't deny it.

They both know they should take a shower, but they end up falling asleep together instead.

…

“You'll like it, I promise,” Arthur says with a laugh. They're sitting in a coffee shop and Eames has got a steaming mug of brown liquid in front of him, and it most certainly does  _not_ smell like tea.

He wrinkles his nose. “I didn't like it last time.”

“This time will be different.” Arthur's the most relaxed Eames has seen him in a long time, openly smiling instead of trying to hide it, his hair tousled and his shirt unbuttoned one lower than usual.

“What makes you so sure?” Eames asks, suspicious, but he tries it anyway.

It's actually not bad. Arthur knows Eames knows it's not bad and just waits for him to say it, but he won't. Instead he runs his tongue over his teeth, raises his eyebrows, and says “it's... alright.”

Arthur sighs. “You're just being stubborn.”

  
Eames is about to reply when he thinks he sees something in the corner of his eye. He looks, but finds nothing but more cafe-goers, some laughing, some brooding, but none like what he was looking for. He's about to give up and turn back to Arthur when he sees it again, this time disappearing down the hallway toward the bathrooms. Something tugs at his mind, like he should  _know_ what the thing is, but he can't put his finger on it.

“I'll be right back, darling,” he mutters. He can feel Arthur's fingers grip his wrist, but they let go when he realizes Eames isn't stopping. He wants to go sit back down with Arthur but the shadow is far more compelling.

 _It's just for a moment,_ he thinks as he enters the hallway. It's like a compulsion. He doesn't know why he has to chase this shadow, but he does.

He can feel it there.

He looks around, but sees nothing. His eyebrows furrow. It's there, he  _knows_ it's there, so--

He's about to give up when he feels a light touch on his shoulder. The hallway seems to grow colder as he looks, something in his stomach dropping.

It's a man. He's absolutely  _massive,_ built like a brick wall, and something big and black is covering half his face.

“Wh--”

His breath is forced out of him as he's slammed against the wall.

The man's eyes are intense and he lifts Eames up by the throat, bringing him clear off the floor. Eames' legs are kicking at anything—the wall, the man's legs, anything he can reach. He tries to scream but no sound leaves his throat.

His face with its peculiar mask grows closer and he can feel his bones breaking. As he chokes, gasping desperate for air, his eyes widen.

The face he's staring into is his own.

…

Eames wakes up screaming.

It's not a whine or a whimper; he's full on  _screaming,_ kicking at the sheets around him, his fingers scrabbling at his throat for the hands he should feel there. He falls out of the bed onto the hardwood floor and scrabbles for the wall on all fours, pressing himself against it, his breathing frantic and wild.

“What the fuck--” Arthur's already got a gun out and he's standing, muzzle pointed at the door. It takes a moment for him to realize that there's nothing there, just Eames in the corner, stark naked and staring into space with wide, scared eyes.

Arthur drops the gun.

“Eames, Eames, are you...”

Eames doesn't hear him, doesn't see him. All he can think about is that face: it's half-hidden by a mask, sure, but he'd know that face anywhere, know those eyes. They were his.

He feels Arthur's hands on his shoulder and tries to focus on him, but that man is there, the brick wall, solid and terrifying and achingly familiar. He's everywhere, suddenly, like he's been there all along, and he can hear Arthur using his Point Man voice—“Eames! Snap out of it!”—but it doesn't actually go  _through,_ doesn't do anything, and for one horrible, horrible moment he thinks he's lost himself.

He knows what's happening. He can feel it in his bones.

Eames' boxes are piling up.

He think he might be running out of places to put them.

…

He's better by morning, if only marginally. Arthur gives him this terribly pitying look and Eames brushes him off and they are both in foul spirits, mostly because Eames decided they would be because he doesn't want to fucking talk about it.

They do a job—their jobs are often together these days, now that Dom's out of the business—and they go back to Arthur's because Eames' place isn't really home anymore and Arthur has stopped kicking him out, had stopped  _months_ ago, and they eat dinner and they talk about things other than what they should be talking about and nothing's good, but Eames is content to pretend it is and that's enough.

They go to bed without ceremony.

 _Perhaps tomorrow will be a good day,_ he thinks, but something deep inside of him knows better.

…

They're in a hotel room by the beach. Arthur's never been a big fan of the beach but Eames likes the way the saltiness of it hangs in the air so they go anyway. Arthur casts off Eames' tropically inspired shirt impatiently and pushes him onto the ready-made bed, clambering up after him with an aggressiveness Eames usually only sees if he's done something very, very right. Eames tries to undress him but Arthur stops him, a dangerous smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Patience,” he whispers, and then proceeds to give Eames the filthiest strip tease he has ever seen, all while seated upon his lap rather impolitely, his eyes sparkling every time Eames says something inappropriate about the whole situation.

Arthur is leaning down to kiss him, to give him what he's been waiting for, when Eames sees something flickering just outside of his field of vision.

“Arthur—”

Arthur's biting his bottom lip at the time and feeling along his chest, making it  _very_ hard to concentrate on the matter at hand.

The flickering gets nearer and Eames feels like he should know what it is. It's familiar, but he can't quite place it, doesn't quite understand it—

_Thud._

Arthur goes flying, tossed aside like a rag doll, and crashes through the sliding glass door. There he is, this—this  _thing,_ a black mask covering half his face, built like a brick wall and as tough-looking as one, too. He pulls Eames from the bed gracelessly, smashing his fingers below a heavy boot when he tries to reach for something, anything to use as a weapon.

Eames yelps.

The man's fingers close around his neck and bring him up, up, crushing him against the wall, and he can feel his bones breaking and no sound can escape his throat but the gurgle of blood and his own spit drowning him.

The face moves closer and closer to him, the eyes full of hatred, and that's when it hits him.

He's staring into his own face.

For one long, tense moment all is silent, everything but the breath of his attacker through the mask gone completely quiet.

He leans in and his eyes, his  _fucking_ eyes, narrow, and he speaks three words:

“You owe me.”

…

He screams again.

Arthur's clutching at his hands and there's this frantic pleading pouring from his lips and running through his mind, bouncing around like a mantra—“What's wrong, Eames, what's happening, just tell me”—and Eames' head is lolling back and forth and by the end of it Arthur is just sitting across from him, legs tucked into his chest, rubbing Eames' knuckles with the calloused pads of his fingers and bringing them up to his lips to kiss.

“I wish you would talk to me,” he says, and not a word more.

…

Eames doesn't talk to him.

This time, because he is unprompted, Arthur elects in return to say nothing on the matter—not with his mouth  _or_ his eyes. He asks “coffee?” in his Point Man voice and Eames replies “tea” in his Forger voice and Arthur pours a little too much milk in his coffee and Eames spills his tea on the table and Arthur's shirt is a tiny bit wrinkled at the bottom and Eames runs a red light and nothing's actually okay, but at least nothing is said.

It happens that night and the next one, too. After that, Eames decides to sleep on the couch.

…

It's a club. Arthur is dancing, his hair slicked back, and his dress is semi-casual, a black button-down over tidy-looking gray jeans. Eames smiles over at him as he grabs two drinks, sighing as he imagines later that night. He's about to bring the drinks over to him when he notices something out of the corner of his eye.

His eyes narrow. It feels familiar—a flickering sort of thing—but he can't quite place it. It's like it's pulling him in, wanting him to investigate it, but every time he looks there's nothing there.

Nothing, of course, except a huge fucking man in a mask.

He hits the bar this time, scrabbling against the wood but finding no purchase.

“Who are you?” he managed to choke, his fingernails raking at the man's hands.

Those eyes he suddenly knows very, very well tighten with hatred and contempt.

“You should know already. Eames, darling, I am your reckoning.”

The knife he's holding plunges between Eames' ribs and, with one short, sullen laugh, he twists.

…

Another scream.

Eames clutches his stomach for a moment and has to manually tell himself that it's the same as dreamsharing, that he's not really injured, but that's not the problem. The real problem is...

What  _is_ the real problem?

He can't remember. All he knows is that he was scared, horribly, all-consumingly scared, and that there was pain. But what about all the other bits?

He knows he woke Arthur up because he hears the springs of the bed shifting, but he doesn't go to him. Instead he opts for the tidbit drawer—he named it that personally—beside the fridge, pulling out a pen and pad of paper among the mess of small useful items.

Sitting down on the couch, he turns on the lamp on the end table and stares at the pad a moment.

 _Pain,_ he writes. It looks silly but he knows he has to do it before he forgets, because this is just getting out of hand and he would really like to bone Arthur in peace and he is instead sleeping on the couch and, frankly, the whole thing is just getting out of hand.  _Shadow. Deja vu. Arthur. Fear._

He stops for a moment, racking his mind for other details.

_I am your reckoning._

He writes that down, too.

…

Wake.

Tea.

Job.

Eat.

Sleep.

Dream.

Fear.

Scream.

Write.

Sleep.

Repeat.

…

As he keeps dreaming, he learns to control his immediate waking emotions a bit more, and the screaming stops. He still doesn't sleep with Arthur, but he doesn't want to now. He doesn't want to wake Arthur when he gets up to write.

He thinks he's getting close, but he's not quite sure. There are pieces, definitely, but none of them fit together quite right. Mostly he's focused on one thing:  _what the_ fuck  _is scaring him?_

He feels like the key is somewhere but he's missing it, running around looking every place but there. He has the answers, but he's not asking the right questions. But where should he—

And then it hits him.

Why is he only waking up  _now?_

It's an escalation. Whatever it is that's bothering him, it's only just now gotten to the point of waking him up, of making him cry out in fear. It's an old demon, something deep inside of him that he doesn't even know he's lost, something he can't begin to remember when he wakes.

He knows he needs to open his boxes, but he's afraid of what he'll find.

...

 _One year,_ he thinks.  _One year today._ One year of Arthur and Eames, Eames and Arthur, one year since Eames had asked Arthur to a very fancy French place and Arthur'd said “is that a  _date?”_ and Eames had replied “yes, oh god yes,” (or maybe he'd just thought it; either way, the effect had been the same) and it all suddenly became less casual fucking and more “I like being with you” fucking and maybe a tiny bit of “I like being with you” everything else, too.

He should probably say something, but a detail from a half-remembered dream resurfaces and he forgets to.

…

The next job is one they do together, one they've been preparing for for a while.

“She's terminally ill,” their client had said. “In a coma. They're going to take her off life support any day now. All we need is the combination to her safe and we're golden.”

They could just crack the safe themselves and be done with it, of course, but the client thinks dreamsharing is cleaner. Besides, Eames and Arthur get paid this way, so why argue?

It's a relatively easy thing. Eames doesn't need to forge, really, but he does for the heck of it, only reverting to his true form when Arthur is cracking the safe which, of course, leads them to the thing that will crack the real-life safe. Funny, that.

They make small talk because the job really is just that tame. Eames is bored, frankly, and Arthur is visibly less stressed than usual, his shoulders relatively relaxed compared to his general uptight demeanor. Eames isn't actually paying that much attention, more on autopilot than anything, and can't help but wish he were doing something  _exciting_ with Arthur instead of doing a beginner's job.

Arthur's making some offhanded remark about the interior decorating which Eames, of course, heartily disagrees with, when he sees it.

It's just a flicker at first. Eames looks in its direction but sees nothing, just a bookshelf and some sitting chairs

_Shadow._

The word stands out in his mind like a beacon, situation on yellow notepaper just like it looked when he wrote it down.

“Arthur, pet, how close are you to done?”

“A minute or two.”

“We're going to want to leave very, very fast.”

Arthur turns around. “What's the hurry—”

They spot him at the same time.

Eames recognizes him instantly as the subject of his dreams. His stride is cocky, his fingers looped around the straps of a vest-like garment, and his head is held high.

  
“Who the _hell_ are you?” Arthur asks, rooted to the spot.

A low laugh rumbles through the mask. “I think Mr. Eames knows the answer to that.”

Arthur turns to face him, his eyebrows drawn together in question.

Eames backs up against the bookcase and licks his lips.

“You aren't real,” he says, almost to himself, “it's a dream. It must be a dream—”

“Well,” the man replies, rolling his shoulders, “people say nightmares can't hurt you. Shall we test that theory?”

And then he lunges.

“Eames!” Arthur yells as he readies his pistol, firing off a shot and missing. “What are you doing? Get out of the way!”

Eames can't. He's rooted to the spot by this—this  _thing—_ and god, it has his  _face_ and what is he supposed to  _do_ and—

Again he finds himself lifted up by the throat just like in his dreams, but the angle against the bookcase makes it so he can move his head back a little.

“Why are you doing this?” he wheezes. His hands grip the wrist at his neck but his feet have given up on kicking—he'll die soon anyway, so what's the point?

The man laughs.

“To take back what's mine.”

He hears the boom of Arthur's gun and everything goes dark.

…

“What the  _fuck_ was that?” Arthur yells as he tears out the needle, jumping up to confront Eames.

“Darling, I—I don't know,” Eames says, still in shock.

“Well you better figure it the  _fuck_ out, Eames, 'cause you just lost us a lot of money with whatever that was. I was so close, too—and why did you just stand there, huh? What the fuck was that? What were you even doing? Did you lose your fucking  _mind?”_

“Calm down, Arthur—”

“No, Eames, I will not calm down. Whatever the fuck was haunting you bugged me when it was just at home, you know, but this—now it's fucking with my job.”

He stalks away, leaving Eames speechless.

“Fix it, Eames! Fix it, or so help me God—”

He doesn't finish the sentence. They both know what it means.

…

He tries to fix it. Arthur apologizes but that doesn't mean it's over with, doesn't mean it's  _okay._ He has to fix it because now it's screwing with his career and his relationship and  _everything_ and he's getting frustrated and he just wants it to end.

He feels like a child.

He knows he's acting like one, too, because when Arthur asks, Eames won't tell him. It's a combination of both not knowing enough and being too afraid of whatever it is to tell, and he can tell Arthur's angry with him and he's angry with himself and he just can't  _fix_ it, can't make it better or make it go away.

He doesn't know what to do.

…

He's still busy not knowing when it hits him.

Three days after the incident with the job, he's looking in his notebook, piecing together his broken little dreams, and he finally remembers.

The dreams didn't start recently, oh no. That would be too simple. He knows this man well, has known him for a long time. He's been having nightmares about him for years—first it was the shadows, of course, and then he himself appeared, all danger and malice and fear.

He remembers the night before the Fischer job when he woke up in a cold sweat, his hands shaking. He hadn't thought anything more of it than a rare bout of nerves, but now...

It is a demon, haunting him, possessing him, creeping into his brain slowly but surely, reaching for the most vulnerable parts of his mind to crush them. And now it has him in its clutches.

“Bane,” he whispers. The word hangs in the air like a death sentence.

…

He becomes obsessive. The dreams get worse and he ends up pacing around Arthur's place daily to brood, to think, to figure out how the  _hell_ he is going to get over this. The closer Bane gets, the more pain he inflicts, the more control Eames feels he has.

What  _is_ Bane?

That is the million dollar question, the one he can't even begin to answer. That is the real problem.

…

He starts to black out. He'll wake up in the middle of the night and next thing he knows, it's morning, and he doesn't know whether he slept or not or what he's done or if he's made any progress. The only thing he finds each morning is a newly filled page of yellow notebook paper, pages and pages of them, and they all say the same thing line after line after line:

_I am your reckoning._

He might actually be losing his mind.

…

Arthur finds the notepad. He doesn't say anything but Eames knows what he's thinking.

Eames is thinking it too.

…

“I can hear you, you know.”

“What?”

“When you get up at night. You don't scream anymore, but I know you're awake.”

Eames frowns. “And?”

Arthur looks away. There's this horrible rift between them now, this unfamiliarity that they'd once reserved for pretending they hated eachother, and Eames can see the wall being rebuilt higher and higher with every passing day.

“I made a bet with Dom, you know, when you and I first met. 20 bucks, he said, that we'd end up in some shady hotel together one night stark naked.”

“It was a penthouse suite in Vegas, as I recall,” Eames murmurs, but he knows that's not the point.

“I told him there was no way in hell. I told him and I told him and I told him, but when it happened, he knew.” Arthur laughs, but there is no joy in it. “I gave him his money.”

“Arthur—”

He makes an exasperated sound and stares Eames down, raking a hand through his hair.

“Do you remember that time I told you about my father? About how he treated me?”

“Darling, I—”

“Dom doesn't know that, Eames. Dom doesn't and you do. Dom's never even seen the scars and you've looked at them,  _kissed_  them, each and everyone. You just—you went and turned everything I knew upside down and you picked apart my brain and you made me think that maybe locking everything away wasn't the right way to go, that keeping a barrier between me and the rest of the world wouldn't save me from my own mind, and goddammit, you were  _right._ _”_

Eames doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

“So I opened up, Eames. For you. I took a giant fucking leap of faith and I bared my soul to you.” He looks out the window and Eames can see the wetness in his eyes. “I guess I was just hoping it counted for something.”

“What? You—I don't—”

“You should leave.”

It's like Eames can pinpoint the exact moment when everything goes numb. It's right there, right when Arthur's voice goes from vulnerable to Point Man, when he knows the wall is complete, when he knows he's serious. He's not sure if his heart is still beating.

“I don't understand.” Eames' voice is small, desperate, and he knows it, but he can't get it to be anything else.

“Neither do I. Just... just go. Please. I don't want you here anymore.”

_I don't want you here anymore._

_I don't want you here._

_I don't want you._

That's all. Eames' mouth gapes open like a fish's and he tries to say something, but can't bring himself to speak, doesn't know what to say, what to  _do—_ so instead of saying anything, he picks up his coat and leaves. There's this one last, desperate look at Arthur's flinty gaze and then he's gone, out into the rain and the muck and the scum, with no destination in mind and no real goal but to be miserable for a while.

He gets into a fist fight that night and busts his lip. The other guy walks away with a broken jaw.

It's not good enough.

…

They're still on for one final job—they're just too far to back out of it now, plus Eames' stuff is all still over at Arthur's and it's just easiest to meet up and do the exchange with the job. He feels uneasiness twist in his stomach at the prospect of bumping into Bane again, but now he can put a name to the face— _his_ face, he reminds himself—he thinks perhaps he'll be less intimidating.

 _When did I become so weak?_ he wonders. It's like he doesn't know himself anymore. Everything's a mess and it's gotten to the point he can't even figure himself out, doesn't know what to think or to feel, and it's all Bane's  _fucking_  fault. If he hadn't shown up, hadn't fucked with everything, it'd all be just fine.

Eames knows that's not true, of course, but he likes to pretend it's not his fault. That makes it all a little easier to bear.

“Are you ready for this?” Arthur asks as they prepare. His voice is hard, like ice. He is the Point Man Eames used to know, the uptight, businesslike man with little time for jokes or games, always working on something new, never stopping to relax. He is not Eames' Arthur, the man with the dimples and the scars and the melodious little laugh and the crossword obsession and the secret love for chocolate. He will never be that Arthur again, at least not for Eames.

He misses Arthur so much it hurts.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” he replies simply, barely managing to swallow the “darling.”

Arthur eyes him.

“No surprise visitors?”

“Doubtful.” It's not a solid answer, but he thinks he knows something of how to handle Bane now. If Bane does appear, he's confident he can fight him off long enough for Arthur to finish the job. And then, well, Eames will never see Arthur again. Simple as that.

“Alright, put us under, then,” Eames says, because Arthur won't.

As he leans back in his chair, he can't help but worry he's overestimating himself.

…

They're in a massive, sprawling city at night, all aglow with street lamps and beaming car headlights and flashing neon signs. Prostitutes call out to any passing men, themselves included, and drunkards sway and laugh as they pass by. It's humid and the air reeks of smoke and alcohol, but it's no time to complain.

They're looking for someone.

A pimp and drug lord, to be exact. A purveyor of sex and hallucinations and indiscretion. The client wants information on his operation and what better way to find out than to delve into his mind and learn about the system? The client had tried that, of course, but failed every time. There's nothing like a dream to glean information from, after all, and when they knew the layout of the world, it was a lot harder to be taken off-guard.

The nightclub is sweaty and, like the air outside, filled with smoke and other less-than-tolerable scents. Arthur adjusts his shirt and walks in, Eames following closely behind, and looks around for a manager or someone authoritative to talk to because, even in a dream, one can't just waltz into someone's personal rooms and expect to be treated nicely.

“We're looking for Reefer,” Arthur says simply when they find the right guy.

The man looks skeptical. “What for?”

“A job,” Eames answers. “We have some skills he may be interested in.”

For a moment it looks as if the man will turn them away, but his expression softens a little and he gestures for them to follow him.

They're in.

Eames pays very close attention to his surroundings as he walks, trying to glean some information about the operation that way. He doesn't find much, unfortunately, so they'll probably have to pick Reefer's brain pretty extensively to get all of what they need. Luckily they can pretend they're working, too, so it should only be a matter of time. They're under for quite a while, anyway, so there's no particular hurry. Besides the fact that he can visibly  _see_ how much Arthur wants to get away from him and, well, Eames kind of wants to get away from Arthur, too, so he can start undoing the last year.

Now's not the time to think about that, though. He shakes his head a little and focuses on the hallway they're in instead, following the man with a sure, purposeful stride and holding his head high. He's on a job and he does not need any distractions messing him up. Right now he is Eames the Forger and nothing more.

The man pokes his head around a curtain and Eames comes to a stop. He shifts on his feet a little as he waits, trying to make out when the man is saying, but he can hear nothing.

“Alright. Mr. Reefer's ready for you,” the man finally says, nodding at Arthur.

Eames steps through the curtain and finds the room is darker than he was expecting. He can't see much of the back of it at all, and the lighting is minimal towards the entrance. Lines of people stand on the sides of the room, some talking, some laughing, some standing in silence. Though he knows they're projections, he can't help but wonder what they were doing there anyway.

“So you've come.”

The voice is distant, almost quiet, but Eames knows it instantly.

Arthur seems to know something's wrong, too, but neither of them has time to speak.

“I was expecting you, of course.” There's the sounds of boots tapping against the floor and the owner of the voice steps into the light.

Bane.

Eames feels Arthur's fingernails dig into his arm, but says nothing. He can only watch.

“I must say, it was quite nice of you to deliver yourselves to me like this. I thought it might be a bit more difficult to nab you, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Eames hears the click of Arthur's gun and pulls out his own, pressing it to his temple.

“Ah-ah-ah, I'm afraid you don't want to do that.”

“Why not?” Arthur growls, his voice low.

“You wouldn't want to get trapped in limbo, would you?”

The word hits Eames hard.  _Limbo?_

“Limbo—what has limbo got to do with any of this?” Arthur asks, clearly irritated.

Eames sees the flash of a knife in the half-light and realizes what's about to happen.

“ _Run!”_

They do. Eames and Arthur dodge the suddenly vicious crowd and run for their lives—or perhaps their minds, ducking under the curtain and racing down the hallway, Bane's booming laughter following behind them. Eames sees a sign for the bathrooms and pulls Arthur into one, breaking the nearest window and scrambling out of it.

They run and they run and they run, sticking to alleys to avoid projections. After several minutes of it Eames begins to slow down, looking back for persuers.

“What the  _fuck_ is going on?”

Eames is about to answer when a crackle of static screeches overheard. A voice they know all too well booms over them from some sort of loudspeaker.

“Very impressive, Mr. Eames. You're sharp like your friend, Arthur. No matter. Rest assured that I will find you, and when I do,  _you shall have your reckoning.”_

“Reckoning... Eames, what's—”

“Just follow me, Arthur,” Eames says quickly, looking overhead for cameras. “I'll explain everything once we're safe.”

…

“When I was younger,” he begins, licking his lips and fighting off the nerves, “I was in the military, same as you.” His voice echoes around the large abandoned warehouse they've found to hide out in. “I was in the PASIV testing. I loved it. It was—building worlds, you know, creating things,  _unimaginable_ things, and I thought it was just fantastic. It was brilliant. Sure, there was the whole fact that I had to combat people in these dreams, but that was only a small part of the whole thing. I tolerated that so I could get to the good stuff.”

He sighs, rubbing the nape of his neck. They're sitting leaned up against the wall and he can feel Arthur beside him, feel his heat, and every time he exhales he can feel it on his arm a little. They're so close and yet the wall is there, growing ever more solid by the minute. Eames gets this little desperate feeling in his stomach when he thinks about it.

“I made a friend while I was in training. Cliff. Really great guy, he was—I adored him. We were pretty inseparable as far as guys in the PASIV project were and, though we had to fight eachother often, we grew close. I started getting sick of all the training and the fighting, of killing people, but he anchored me, reminded me of what it was all for. He helped me get through it all when I was starting to doubt myself.”

“Well, there came a time when we had to fight eachother again. It was routine. They hadn't told us something, though: they'd changed the formula. We fought, as per usual, and this time I won. Managed to slam his head against a brick wall, that was the end of it.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Well, he didn't wake up.

“I didn't know it at the time, but he was in limbo. The formula they'd used, it was intense, it was  _new,_ and it sent him straight down. At the time limbo was still a new concept. They didn't know what to do about him, nor did I. All I knew was that he was in a coma and it was  _my fault._

“I beat myself up about it for a long, long time. I felt like a monster. Even when I learned what limbo was, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had killed him. Sure, he was still alive physically, but mentally he had the brain function of a vegetable. They never actually managed to wake him up, but I knew. I knew he was gone from the moment the life left his eyes in the dream.

“After I got out of the military, I got violent. I couldn't stop blaming myself for what had happened so I went and screwed up other peoples' days, too. The anger just built up more and more until I just couldn't  _take_ it, couldn't deal with it anymore, didn't know how to live with such a horrible ache in my chest.

“So I bottled it up. Fighting was only making me angrier, so I left it all behind and started anew. It was all still there, of course, but I pretended I didn't see it. I acted like there  _was_ no baggage to be emotional about. I got into dreamsharing because it was the only thing I really knew how to do besides steal and beat people up.

“All of it made me a very good actor, hence why I'm a Forger. I was... I was always pretending to be someone else anyway, so what did it matter whether I was pretending to be Eames or pretending to be some aristocratic bloke?”

He stops to breathe, feeling emotions he doesn't want to remember well up in his chest. He's never told anyone any of this, and while it's painful, he can't help but feel better about it all.

“I think... I think that man—Bane—is the result of all the baggage. I think he's my pain and my anger personified, wrapped up in this big horrible package of evil. And I think he wants revenge on me for ignoring him for so long.”

The story sits heavily in the air. At first Eames is afraid Arthur's horrified by it all, but when he looks at Arthur's face, he finds something completely different.

It's a mixture of admiration and sorrow, and it's written so clearly all over his face, like nothing Eames has ever seen before. His throat goes dry and he tries to think of a way to respond, but can't.

“Why didn't you  _tell_ me?” Arthur finally asks, his voice breaking in the middle. There's still some Point Man there, but it's softer, more caring. Eames' heart is pounding relentlessly in his chest and he opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“I don't know,” he finally whispers, and Arthur grabs his shirt and kisses him.

He's not sure how it happens, but he doesn't care. He pulls Arthur into him and sets him down against the floor and runs his hands up and down his chest, disrobing him as slowly as possible and eliciting those wonderful little gasps he always craves, but it's not about the sex, not really. It's about something much more than that, something hard to form words around, something deep and personal. It's about understanding. They understand eachother, if only a little bit, and though the whole thing is kind of terrifying and new and Eames doesn't know how to  _know_ someone, he feels happy anyway.

Arthur's laying on Eames' chest now, stomach to stomach, and he sighs.

“I'm sorry I kicked you out.”

“It was understandable.”

He moved his head to look directly at Eames.

“I should have tried harder to figure it out, though. I gave up and it was stupid of me.”

Eames looks away. “I forgive you.”

It's all horribly cheesy but it happens anyway, just like that, and Eames can't help but smile a little, and they both know they're supposed to be on a job but it's all gone wrong anyway and apparently they'll be stuck in limbo if they die so who are they to risk their lives? So instead they just lay there and talk in quiet, affectionate voices and forgive eachother just a little bit.

When Arthur finally gets up, Eames sighs.

“We should keep moving. They'll find us sooner or later,” Arthur says as he dresses, and Eames knows that he's right but that doesn't make him any happier about it. He dresses, too, and when they're both ready to go Arthur turns to say something and Eames pulls him in for a kiss the way he always does, as long and disruptively as possible, ignoring Arthur's exasperated sounds until they turn into laughter. When he pulls away, Arthur's eyes are bright.

“Alright,  _now_ let's—”

That's when the world explodes.

From all sides they come in, men of various ragged states holding guns and looking menacing. Arthur and Eames pull out their guns in unison but they know they're hopelessly outnumbered. As the ring of men closes in around them, making a tight circle, Eames' grip tightens on the shotgun he's holding.

 _Don't end up in limbo,_ he warns himself, tapping Arthur on the leg before lowering his gun. Arthur grimaces and does the same, dropping his machine gun to the ground.

“What do you want?” Eames asks hoarsely. He's trying to work out why a pimp would have militarized projections, but the whole thing has already gone so many different kinds of wrong that he doesn't dwell on it for too long.

The silence stretches on. Nobody speaks, nobody breathes, they just  _stand_ there, guns trained on the pair. Then, like he's just received an order, one of the men steps forward and slams his gun into Eames' face.

Everything goes dark.

…

“Arthur?” he mutters as he regains consciousness, trying hard to open his eyes.

Nothing.

He feels a pang of panic in his stomach and sits up quickly, looking frantically around the warehouse.

He is alone.

“Fuck!”

Scrambling to his feet, he cringes at the ache in his head and curses until the world stops spinning. He is completely and utterly alone, it seems, no trace of the men or of Arthur to be found. He kicks a crate near him in frustration, annoyance at his stupidity, his weakness.

Suddenly, he hears a scream.

 _Arthur,_ Eames thinks, conjuring the shotgun again and heading for the door nearest the origin of the sound. He steps out onto a broad, weathered-down street, possibly a main street, and looks around.

He's about to turn around when he sees it.

A screen, a huge screen, several stories high on a nearby skyscraper. At first it's just a blur of color, but then the camera focuses and Eames sees Arthur, his head lolling to the side and his face caked with blood.

“ _Arthur!”_ he screams, running toward the skyscraper. He stops, however, when Bane's face appears.

“Now, now, Eames. Don't do anything stupid,” he says, his voice amplified by the speakers around the city. “I only want to talk to you.”

“What do you want?”

Bane laughs.

“I want a lot of things, you could say. I want a nice car and a good breakfast and a day at the park—”

“Don't  _fuck_ with me, Bane!”

Bane raises his eyebrows. “You're hardly in a position to be making demands, Mr. Eames. Very well, though, I shall get to the point.” He pauses, as if turning the words over in his mind. “I want you to  _suffer.”_

It's like the whole world is silent.

“Did you ever think of how selfish you are, Mr. Eames? I've been with you for a long time, supported you, kept you strong. I am your  _hatred._ And what did you do to me? You threw me away. You cast me aside like trash, blocked me out, deprived me of the beautiful world you lived in because I wasn't doing exactly what you wanted me to.

“I want a life too, you know. I want all of this—the riches, the happiness, this  _charming_ boyfriend of yours—too, but I can't have it, and you know why? Because you excluded me. I wasn't good enough for your wonderful happy little life, so you cut me out of it.

“It was painful, being cramped up in the back of your mind, never seeing the daylight. It was  _agonizing._ I suffered greatly and experienced little. And you, Mr. Eames... now you are going to experience that suffering firsthand. I'm going to take everything away from you, and when you think you've got nothing left, I'm going to take a little more.”

He pauses again, looking toward Arthur.

“I think I'll start with your boyfriend.”

There's the flash of a blade and then Arthur is crying out, gasping, his eyes glazed over with pain.

“You'd better come and get him, Mr. Eames, before he bleeds out. Wouldn't want him to be trapped in limbo, now would you?”

“ _Where is he?!”_

“He's in the very tower you now gaze upon. Don't be late. Oh, and try not to get yourself killed—that's simply too boring.”

The screen goes black.

For a moment Eames can do nothing, just sit there and stare, mouth agape. His legs are shaking and he's never been scared like this before and he doesn't know what to  _do—_

Something inside of him snaps to attention. Now is not the time for hysterics, it says, and Eames listens. He readies his gun and proceeds toward the building, shooting all the men in sight. It's guarded, but not too heavily, and Eames gains entrance to the building after minimal interference.

He runs over the layout of the hotel in his head, trying to remember all the details—they hadn't planned on coming here for the job, so it's all a bit fuzzy. If he remembers it correctly, though, there's a shortcut through a vent system that will take him through all the rooms, so once he figured out which one Arthur and Bane are in, he's set.

Now he just needs a distraction...

Twenty-five minutes and seven dead guards later and he's got a whole network of explosives laid out, just ready to be blown. This will be sure to attract Bane's attention, no doubt about it. He begins climbing the stairs one floor at a time, sweeping the rooms for the sound of screaming and finding none. It's not until he reaches the top floor that he hears something: a low moan, the sound of true suffering.

He feels bile rise in his throat and shakes his head. Now isn't the time to think about Arthur. Instead he pinpoints the room and, hiding in the vent, triggers the explosion.

The whole vent shakes with the force of the explosion, sending Eames knocking around in the small square space. Sure enough, though, it's worth it, because he hears Bane's lumbering footsteps walk away from the room.

Kicking the grate off, he scrambles out of the vent and looks around. There's nobody in the hallway, making it an easy journey to the hotel room where Arthur is.

As he enters the room, his breath catches in his throat.

It's the penthouse suite from Vegas—the walls, the layout, everything, it's all the same, all a spitting image. Eames' eyes scan across the room frantically, taking it all in, and when they alight on the bed he makes a strangled sound.

Arthur is laying on the bed, his hands tied to the headboard and his head lolled to the side and there's so,  _so_ much blood.

“Arthur, darling,” Eames cries, the sound choked. He rushes to Arthur's side, taking his face between his hands and rubbing his fingers on his cheekbones gently.

“Darling, I'm so, so sorry—”

Arthur's trying to speak, Eames can tell, but no words come out. His chest is absolutely covered in cuts and bruises and wounds, all hideous and painful-looking. His breathing is unspeakably shallow and quick, like he can't find the oxygen he so seeks, and when Eames looks at his chest a second time he realizes why.

Bane has punctured his lungs.

That's it, then. Arthur has a matter of minutes left and there's nothing Eames can do. His mouth opens and closes, like he's going to say something, but he can't. Arthur is going to go to limbo and it's  _all his fault._

“You destroy everything you touch, don't you?”

The voice makes him jump.

Eames turns around quickly to find Bane leaning in the doorway, what little of his expression looking haughty and somewhat amused.

“How did you—”

“How did I get back so quickly with the explosion?”

Eames nods dumbly.

Bane laughs, a deep, throaty sound.

“It's kind of a miracle, really, when you think about it. I didn't think it would work myself but, well, here we are.”

Eames' heart is pounding in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about  _us,_ Eames. I'm talking about what's happening right here, right now, between  _us._ Don't you see it?”

“See  _what?”_ Eames asks desperately, his voice cracking.

“There is no job, Mr. Eames. It's all a lie.”

Eames wants to throw up.

“What do you mean?” he whispers, steadying himself against the bed.

“Oh, do try to keep up. You see, the miracle of our existence is this: we are two separate consciousnesses in one body, two entirely different entities, existing separately yet inextricably intertwined.”

Suddenly everything begins to fall into place. “You're—”

“That's right, Mr. Eames. You are the dreamer and I am filling it with my subconscious.”

The world is spinning. Eames tries to stay standing, but he can't see right and it's like he's in a tunnel, and when Bane speaks he can do nothing but sink to the ground in disbelief.

“That's impossible, you're thinking. This can't be happening. Bane is a part of me; he doesn't have his own subconscious. Not to mention that there was even a  _client_ there in the room when we started, there was a  _victim_ whose mind we were going into—it just can't be fake!”

He laughs again, the sound filled with hate.

“It was a pretty brilliant plan, I must say, making you set up the destruction of your own life, your own sanity. Do you remember when you kept blacking out a few days ago?”

Eames nods because he can do nothing else.

“You were setting this whole plan up. Well, it was technically my doing, but I'll credit you because, after all, I  _am_ a part of you. A very, very dangerous part, but a part nonetheless.

“You wanted to set up a fake job into which you would bring Arthur and yourself. You bought out everyone involved but Arthur, see, and you researched heavy-duty chemicals, the intense kind, the kind you might not wake up from. Ones that would send you into limbo just like Cliff was. You told them to make it look like a job and then leave and paid them a hefty sum of money to do it. You planned it all out  _beautifully,_ I must say. Sure, it might have been my idea, but you did all the legwork, and for that you must receive credit.”

Eames can't speak, he can't breathe, he can't  _think—_ there's  _no_ way that Bane is telling the truth, and yet... it all seems so plausible. The way the projections were militarized, how they revolved around him, how Eames never saw the real client within the dream... the more he thinks about it, the more he knows it's true.

He has brought this upon himself.

Struggling to his feet, he looks back at Arthur and licks his lips.

“It is a shame you do not see the beauty in it too. I am, after all, a part of you. This is all your doing, every last bit. The darker side of you just pushed it along a little.”

Eames is crying. The tears are sudden, but once they start they won't stop, and his hands are shaking, and he doesn't know what to  _do._

“You can have me,” he finally whispers, falling to his knees in front of Bane.

“What was that, Mr. Eames?”

“Kill me. Take me to limbo. Torture me for eternity. Just—just let Arthur go!”

Bane's eyes scan over Eames and they both know he's been broken. He's a doll, some useless breathing thing with no will to live. It's over.

For one long, horrible moment, Bane says nothing and Eames thinks he will refuse. He's on his  _knees_ in front of him, begging, pleading, and he might get turned down.

Bane's quiet “very well” proves that is not the case.

“Very well,” he repeats, cracking his knuckles. “I suppose an eternity of mental torture is far better than anything I could have hoped for.”

Eames opens his arms and raises his chin to the ceiling, waiting for the first blow.

“I love you,” he whispers. He doesn't think Arthur hears it, but it lifts a weight off his shoulders anyway.

Bane kicks him once in the gut, knocking him onto the ground. He can feel his bones as they're crushed beneath his weight, feel the blood pooling in his mouth. He spits it out but more comes immediately, filling his mouth and his nose and his lungs until he can't breathe, can't speak, can't  _feel_ anymore, as each new blow flares up and adds to the agony.

The last thing he sees is Bane's face looming above him, cruel and triumphant.

…

Arthur gasps into life, his spine arching as he reacts to pain that isn't there. He tears the needle from his arm quickly and looks around, finding himself in an empty room.

Empty except for the PASIV... and Eames.

Everything comes rushing back to him: he remembers the pain, he remembers the torture, the despair... he remembers Eames looking up at the ceiling and those three words that meant so much:  _I love you._

“Eames,” he cries, his voice breaking. He tries to wake him, tries to snap him out of it, because though he knows limbo can't be shaken from the outside, he's feeling irrational and panicked and he  _loves_ this man, loves him so much it hurts, and suddenly realizes exactly how much he can't live without him.

Nothing.

It's about fifteen minutes before Arthur can bear to get up, bear to tear himself away. Eames is gone, another soul lost to limbo, and there's nothing Arthur can do about it. That's the end of it.

As he turns, however, a creak stops him.

He looks back to find Eames' eyes opening. His heart stops for a moment, thinking that this can't be true— _people don't wake up from limbo—_ but there he is, and he's ripping the needle from his arm and getting up, and Arthur can do nothing but stare.

“Oh, Eames, I thought you were—”

Eames' fist smashes into his face.

He hits the wall hard, completely unprepared for the attack, and as another punch hits his face and he falls down, despair wells in his stomach.

Eames' knee presses into Arthur's sternum and he breaks Arthur's fingers when Arthur tries to hit him, his laugh slow and rumbling.

He leans into Arthur's face, his eyes fiery and terrifying, and he smiles.

“Eames... I like that name.”


	2. Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is meant to be read directly after the bit where Bane says: "'It is a shame you do not see the beauty in it too. I am, after all, a part of you. This is all your doing, every last bit. The darker side of you just pushed it along a little.'"
> 
> Let me know which ending you like better!

Eames needs time to think.

“A separate consciousness,” He finally says, looking at Bane with an expression torn between fear and awe.

“That is correct. I exist completely independently of you, Mr. Eames, save our shared physical body.”

Eames turns it over in his head and gradually stops shaking. A separate consciousness... a completely different being...

“A totally separate being, yeah? Then I guess that means I can send you to limbo separately, too.”

It takes Bane a moment to realize what he means, but by then it's too late. Eames has conjured up the shotgun again and aims it right at Bane's face, his finger tightening on the trigger.

He shoots.

One second the wall is clean, the next second it's covered in blood. Eames lets the gun drop and turns back to Arthur, cradling his face in his hands.

“Arthur, darling, can you hear me?”

Arthur's eyes manage to open a little bit. Eames takes that as a yes.

“Alright, just... hold on, okay? You'll—you'll be alright.”

Of course, whether or not he'll actually be alright is up in the air. He's bled all over the place and so near death that Eames can practically see it looming over his shoulder, his skin pale and while and his chest barely bothering to heave.

“Arthur, come on, stay with me.”

Arthur's trying, he's really trying, but his eyes keep closing and his lungs are burning and Eames knows he's practically already gone; he has just _seconds—_

…

Reality hits him like a sledgehammer.

One moment the two bodies in the room are still, the next Arthur's gasping for air that he can suddenly actually breathe and Eames is shaking, just shaking, and then they're reaching for eachother and Eames clutches Arthur to his chest and Arthur's hands tighten around his back and there's this long, wonderful silence in which neither of them does anything but appreciate the other.

Arthur gives Eames a long look and then kisses him, just once, and Eames is about to pull him into another when Arthur stops him.

“I love you, too,” he says, his cheeks turning a hint of pink.

Eames smiles.

…

“Just _try_ it,” Arthur says, giving Eames a stern look.

“Darling, I've tried it before. Like I said, I don't like it.”

Despite Eames' dislike of coffee, Arthur has managed to persuade him to get some at the coffee shop in which they now sit—because really, Arthur drinks so much coffee that it's just impractical for Eames not to like it, too. Eames gets a whiff of the liquid which most certainly is _not_ tea, not tea at all, and frowns, feeling apprehensive. Arthur's looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to try it, waiting for him to concede.

Eames takes a deep breath and presses the mug to his lips.

It's actually alright, of course. More than alright, even. It's pretty good. Neither of them says anything, but they both know what Eames is thinking. Arthur is sitting there, his mouth open the tiniest bit, just _waiting_ for Eames to say he likes it, to prove him right. And as much as Eames doesn't want to admit Arthur's right, he has this image in his mind, this half-remembered dream, of a time when he regretted not saying what he felt. It's hazy and he can't remember the details, but he knows the regret inside out.

So, taking a deep breath, Eames smiles, looks up at Arthur, and says “it's good!”

Though the victory is Arthur's, Eames can't help but feel he's won something far more precious.


End file.
